


Dreams of Home

by Bridgr6



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Home, Mutual Pining, Redemption
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:08:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23138218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bridgr6/pseuds/Bridgr6
Summary: "If home is more than just a place, how can it ever be stolen?"Jorah Mormont and Daenerys Targaryen have always been bound by dreams of home.
Relationships: Jorah Mormont/Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 30
Kudos: 46
Collections: Jorleesi Equinox Exchange -Spring 2020





	Dreams of Home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Memoir_Of_Stars](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Memoir_Of_Stars/gifts).



> Hiya! 
> 
> I'm super excited to share my story for the Jorleesi Exchange. It was a heck of a thing to write (in the best way). I got to do some research and kinda push away from my normal writing style. Being able to create a fic for someone has been amazing! It's something I've never actually done before, but truly enjoyed. The requests were brilliant, btw (shoutout to Memoir_Of_Stars). Real MVP status right there. It's easy to write when you're presented with great ideas lol. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

_It's just a dream._

_Jorah_ _knows this. But there they are_ _–_ _his family. They're standing just across the river, looking_ _happy to see him. The_ _cousins wave, his aunt's eyes are bright, and even his father's_ _scowl speaks of affection._

_Jorah's eyes are drawn to the woman standing closest to the water's edge. Her features are blurred beyond recognition, yet somehow he knows her identity. It's his mother – his heart tells him so. Sadly, even in the depths of his mind, he can't quite remember her face. And it's_ _her face he longs to see_ _most._

_Glancing around, he quickly recognizes his_ _surroundings. They're on Bear Island, the_ _only place where the land outshines the rising and setting sun. Everything is just as he remembers – from the dirt patches hidden beneath snow, to the small streams_ _fed by the hills and sky._

_Caught in the illusion of joy, Jorah turns back to his family._

_His heart sinks_ _–_ _why do_ _they seem further_ _away?_

_Instinctively, he_ _steps forward, feet plowing through shallow water, willing to battle the current to keep the people he loves in sight._

_But something's wrong._

_With_ _his touch, the_ _water changes from blue to black, consumed by the murky shadow of shame. Shocked and confused, Jorah tries to stumble away, but the water becomes deeper. His eyes desperately search the opposite bank, hoping his family will come to his aid. They're still there, but_ _instead of happiness, their eyes carry_ _varying shades of anger._

_Perhaps it's fortunate he cannot recall his mother's face; he's spared the sight of her resentment._

_Jorah tries to pull himself to shore, but the river grows deeper still, expanding into a narrow sea. The rising tide_ _grants him one last look_ _at the shore. But towering trees are all that exists in the space his family once stood. They've left and taken his remaining strength with them._

_Sinking deeper into the water, Jorah's panic fades into something more dangerous - calm acceptance. He hears the roar of fresh water cascading_ _over rocky cliffs and knows what lies ahead_ _–_ _the waterfalls of Bear Island, designed by the Gods to_ _pour life into sedentary water and revitalize what has become stagnant._

_As he is pulled closer to the edge of his dreams, Jorah imagines himself standing beneath the waterfalls, waiting his turn...waiting to be cleansed by the Gods._

_Maybe then he can return home._

* * *

_**293 AC – Pentos** _

_**(Jorah Mormont)** _

When Jorah awakens, it's to the loud snoring of the man across the room. Sitting up on the wooden cot he calls a bed, Jorah peers at his new roommate, squinting in order to discern limbs from empty bottles. Despite what some may believe, sharing a room with a drunk does not bring about restful sleep. Unfortunately, he no longer has the luxury of choosing private sleeping quarters.

Jorah grimaces as his fellow sellsword sucks in a mouthful of air and beings choking. With each heavy breath, the sour stench of booze and sweat grows stronger. How wonderful it must be to sleep through the day. His roommate spends little time working, choosing instead to roam various local brothels.

_Awfully bold of you to be judging others_ , Jorah internally berates.

Exiled and disgraced – that's the sum of his titles now.

Releasing a pained grunt, Jorah stands and readies for another day of heat, hunger, and fighting. He's already so tired. Having been beaten and bruised in recent weeks, his body protests even the simplest of movements. Taking up dangerous work has earned Jorah a decent reputation, but at a considerable cost to his health.

Perhaps luck will turn in his favor. One day of decent wages is all that is needed to facilitate a week's rest.

A few hours later, while sitting with yet another Pentoshi magister, Jorah realizes the day will yield nothing in the form of monetary payment. While merchant lords are not preferred company, they often require the services of a sellsword. Jorah would rather sit in a Dothraki camp than a grand manse, but nomadic warriors have little need for his protection.

_Apparently neither do usual employers_ , he thinks bitterly.

The wealthy have grown confident in the absence of violence. All thanks to a few Dothraki tributes in recent moons.

Nevertheless, instead of seeking work elsewhere, Jorah allows the magister to talk. Pentos is a city built not only by trade, but by men who enjoy exchanging secrets almost as much as coin. Information is of great value to those who listen for faint whispers – a lesson Jorah learned the hard way.

Having consumed too much wine to quell ego or honesty, the magister rattles of rumors without encouragement. Jorah listens carefully, sorting words of value from petty gossip. He finds the story of a silver-haired man and a lost dynasty particularity interesting.

_A story connected to home_ , he thinks and for the first time in a long time, Jorah feels a spark of hope.

* * *

_**294 AC – The Great Grass Sea** _

_**(Daenerys Targaryen)** _

" _What do you pray for, Ser Jorah?"_

" _Home."_

The brave knight, her new friend, prays for home. Daenerys finds great comfort in this revelation. They have stumbled upon a shared dream that unites them beyond obligation.

That night, after dancing around a Dothraki fire, Daenerys finds sleep. She dreams of a place lost to memory – the house with the red door.

It's the only home she has ever known.

It's the only place where sweet memories overpower the bitterness of her brother's affection.

In this blissful fantasy, she stands on the stone steps outside Ser Willem Darry's house. The red door looms ahead, tall and imposing. Unfamiliar moldings of ebony and crimson dragons crown the space above the entrance way. The fiery creatures arch towards hers, their menacing eyes daring her to cower away. And she almost does – _almost_.

But curiosity grabs hold of her, urging her forward. She presses her palm against the door, surprised by the warmth of the wood beneath her fingertips. It serves as fuel for something inside of her that she doesn't quite understand.

_It's power_... _it_ _has to be_.

And chained to it is her family's legacy.

_Is this what Viserys yearns for?_

Daenerys slowly pushes the red door open, but finds the house empty. All of Ser Willem's possessions are gone. His walking stick no longer leans against the slanted stone wall of the corner room and the ostentatious rugs, vases, and paintings have all disappeared. A breeze filters through an open window, but where is the tangy scent of lemons?

The comforts of her childhood are gone.

She walks further into the house, peering through the window, eyes drawn to the shoreline. Dark clouds roll overhead in growing waves. A storm approaches, carrying the realization of where she must travel.

Her true home calls to her from across the Narrow Sea.

* * *

**_260 AC – Bear Island_ **

_**(Maege Mormont)** _

_The air is surprisingly warm once Maege steps out of the stables. It's midday and the sun shines bright enough overhead to combat the cold rising from the snow-covered ground. Before heading into the shaded forest, she takes a moment to tip her head up and absorb the stillness of the day._

_It's then that she hears soft footsteps behind her. Her_ _hand instinctively reaches for the_ _blade at her side. She turns quickly, ready to spring forward, but stops._

_Instead of the enemy she expects,_ _she is met by_ _the small frame of her nephew, Jorah. He stands a few paces away, blue eyes peeking out_ _from beneath an_ _over-sized fur coat._

_Where in the seven hells was_ _Jeor?_

_Maege looks around for her brother, but he_ _is nowhere to be found. She heaves a sigh._

" _What are you doing out here on your own, boy?" she asks, sheathing her blade. Jorah steps towards her without responding._ _Maege holds up at hand to stop him._ _"No...go home, Jorah." she shakes her head, using her sternest tone in hopes that it is_ _authoritative enough to deter her small companion._

_Mormont Keep is still visible between the trees. So she points towards_ _the castle with an emphatic look before continuing on her way, trusting Jorah will obey – a_ _true mistake on her part._

_Distracted by the_ _loud crunch of snow beneath her feet, she doesn't hear Jorah's continued footsteps_ _until they're at the edge of the woods. Turning back around, Maege once again tries out_ _a deep frown. But it's_ _a losing battle. There's a familiar set to her nephew's brow and it carries the unshakable stubbornness of their House words._

" _Come on then," Maege relents, holding out a hand._

_Jorah's blue eyes brighten with the promise of adventure. Careful to follow her tracks, he steps forward eagerly. Maege bites back a smile. It's difficult to remember when she was like that – curious and unafraid._

_Before she can begin to ponder the woes of adulthood, Jorah slides his gloved hand into hers and stares_ _up at her through a mess of golden curls. With a grumble and huff, she leads the way._

_Nothing clears the mind like a walk with_ _nature_ _–_ _surely, that's_ _a universal truth. Just one small thing that all men can agree upon?_

_Jorah seems to agree._ _He walks alongside her in awestruck silence, eyes scrambling to absorb every color and detail._

_Maege's_ _lips settle into a fond smile. She could be in_ _worse company._

_While she searches for the animal traps set the day prior, Jorah wanders_ _between the trees. She is careful to keep an eye on him, but it doesn't take him long to find trouble. As she bends down to pick at one of the cages, there's_ _a yelp of pain from a few feet away._

_Her stomach drops unexpectedly._

" _Jorah?" she rushes towards him._

_One of the_ _unchecked cages_ _lies close to his feet, a bundle of fur trapped inside. It's clear the creature has been dead for some time._

" _Ow," Jorah_ _murmurs softly, cradling_ _one hand in_ _the other. A rivulet of blood stains his glove where the metal edge of the trap cut through to his palm. Maege gently takes his hand, careful not to cause more damage as she pulls off_ _his glove._

_She sighs, relieved_ _–_ _the cut isn't deep._

_Fumbling with_ _numb fingers, she tears a scrap of fabric from the thin scarf tucked beneath her heavy coat. The strip of cloth is small, but so is Jorah's hand. She ties it securely to stop the bleeding. The makeshift bandage will last the journey back to the keep._

_Glancing down at Jorah, she is surprised to find his tear-filled eyes fixed upon the caged animal. His expression is impossibly sad for a boy his age. The death of the small creature_ _seems to have caused him_ _more pain than the bite of steel._

_Maege sighs, leveling_ _her nephew with a sympathetic look._

" _That heart of yours is going to get you into a lot of_ _trouble, Jorah Mormont."_

* * *

_**295 AC – The Great Grass Sea** _

_**(Jorah Mormont)** _

Jorah inhales deeply before freeing a weary puff of air. Unfortunately, it does little to alleviate the tightness building in his chest as he watches a torn piece of parchment crumble in the fire. Black ink melts into gray lines of ash, destroying the words that would have carried him home.

The night is calm except for a warm breeze that wafts through his hair and slips beneath his half-open tunic. Golden embers float up from the flames, caught by the wind and transformed into delicate flakes of soot. Jorah watches absolution drift overhead, once again out of reach.

"You fool," he mutters to himself, leaning back to sit on a slab of wood. The heat of the flames poke at his skin, irritating flesh that has spent the entire day bathed in sunlight. But he doesn't shift away. The pain is a pleasant distraction from his self-pitying thoughts.

Jorah cannot return to Bear Island with just the King's pardon. Those words will grant passage into Westeros, but not into his family's home. There is no true value in clemency purchased at the expense of an innocent life.

_That_ is why he cannot accept the pardon – it has little to do with Daenerys Targaryen.

_No, it has absolutely nothing to do with her kindness or beauty or the genuine nature of their interactions._

If anything, it's respect...yes, admiration for a young woman who hasn't bowed to the grim realities of life. Brutality hasn't overpowered compassion – Jorah has seen this in her gentle smiles and warm eyes.

_Or perhaps it's sympathy,_ he reasons.

Given the chance, Daenerys could make something of her life. At the very least, she deserves more than the future her brother chartered for her.

_What about betrayal? Does she deserve that?_

Jorah closes his eyes against the powerful rush of guilt that churns his stomach. In the shadows of his mind, all he sees is regret. What a pitifully long trail of poor decisions. Have past mistakes taught him nothing? Had his father's disappointment and Lynesse's betrayal not broken his heart into enough pieces to prevent it from grasping onto someone else? In moments where Jorah feels himself warming to others, he wishes they would've shattered it, for in this eagerness to love, he has stumbled upon more pain.

Jorah shakes his head, angry at himself for once again growing weak beneath the attention of a beautiful woman.

Home – that should be his focus.

Lost in thought, Jorah fails to hear the soft approaching footsteps until they stop in front of him. Looking up, he is met by a familiar pair of violet eyes.

"Khaleesi, it's late."

Despite her nod of agreement, Daenerys sits beside him. They fall into a companionable silence, eyes buried in the flames.

When she finally speaks, she surprises him with a question about Bear Island, asking for stories of the past. Jorah thinks of denying her – there is something quietly intimate about sharing memories in the dark – it's like opening a window to the soul.

____________________

"Could you tell me about Bear Island?" the question escapes without much forethought. It's a natural request in the serene setting.

Ser Jorah turns his head towards her, hesitation pressing his lips into a flat line. She waits patiently, trying to damper the eagerness floating up to her eyes. His gaze flickers across her face, assessing each line carefully.

For a moment, he looks as though he will deny her. She can already hear his patient words and see his tolerant smile – he would be polite even in rejection.

Proper courtesy begs her to apologize, forget her curiosity, and leave the poor knight in peace. There's danger in this new temptation to seek comfort in a man that's not her husband, something deeper than a mere desire to hear stories of a land she may never visit and something more natural than the arranged relationships scattered throughout her life.

So caught up in her own worries, she almost misses the moment Ser Jorah yields to her request. His eyes lift at the corners, welcoming and warm.

Daenerys listens eagerly to the descriptions of Bear Island's sloping hills and lush forests. Each word paints an image so vivid in her mind that the scent of smoke turns to pine and the air suddenly carries the chill of an ice-covered sea.

Daenerys smiles, gazing at the man beside her, watching as the sharp edges of his face turn smooth in the glowing light. Slowly, the tension between her shoulders dissipates, lulled away by the soothing tone of Ser Jorah's voice – he is a natural-born story teller.

In the middle of a tale about a bear cub and its mother, Ser Jorah's eyes grows distant – stolen by the past. Daenerys tries not to let fascination turn to envy, but as depictions of Bear Island form in her mind, she can't help but long for a clearer image of her own home.

Perhaps she could ask Ser Jorah how he knows Bear Island is home?

* * *

**_303_ ** **_AC – Dragonstone_ **

_**(Daenerys Targaryen)** _

Isolated.

That's Daenerys' first thought when she arrives at her ancestral home, the place she has fought so hard to return to.

It's a long walk from the shore to the castle, with little to admire except well-crafted walls and even steps. There's not a single blade of grass or blossoming flower in sight. Everything is buried beneath rock. Even the beach itself is more stone than sand.

What Dragonstone lacks in nature, it also lacks in human presence. She hadn't anticipated an adoring crowd upon arrival, but she also hadn't expected things to be so...barren.

_Weren't their small fishing villages nearby? Had the other residents fled just alongside her family?_

Even with an army at her back, loneliness finds a way to curl its talons around her heart – a feeling she hasn't been able to escape since Meereen. There's disappointment too. It's not easy to have a long-held dream come to life and still long for something else.

The search has to end at some point. Happiness must exist somewhere.

_But if not here, then where?_

" _I want to go home."_

" _So do I. I want us both to go home, but they took it from us."_

Daenerys hears the echo of her brother's words, spoken so long ago, and tries to abandon her doubts. But standing before the entrance to the castle, head tipped skyward, she cannot help but allow a question that has chased her for years.

_If home is_ _more than just a place, how can_ _it ever be stolen?_

* * *

**_262 AC – Bear Island_ **

_**(Lady Mormont)** _

" _I want to go with father!" Jorah pleads, desperate as he watches the hunting party gather close to the woods._

_His mother smiles softly, standing beside him. Her eyes follow Jeor until he disappears from view. She places a gentle hand on Jorah's head, sweeping his blonde locks from his face. The untidy curls are almost as stubborn as he is – she blames her husband._

_Jorah is the spitting image of his father, except for his blue eyes...those he shares with her._

" _You are too young now, but your time will come. Be patient, Jorah," she chides lightly._

_A frown creases her son's forehead, but he relaxes beneath her touch. Her little bear – serious on the outside, yet kind and thoughtful on the inside. "Now eat before your food gets cold. No son of mine is going out into the wilderness all skin and bones," she teases and Jorah obediently sits in front of his meal._

_He is quiet for a moment, which is not unusual. Her boy tends to dwell in his thoughts. That quiet nature makes motherhood seem simple, but oh how she loves it when he shares his mind. The rarity of his questions turn them to treasure._

" _Momma, do you think I will ever become big and strong like father?" Jorah asks, peering up from his stew. His hair falls over his eyes again, just enough to conceal the worry she knows rests upon his brow._

_She smiles again and walks until she stands at the opposite end of the stubby wooden table. Bending at the waist, she leans towards him, resting her hand against her cheek and her elbow on the surface between them._

" _My sweet boy, you will one day be a great warrior and a strong leader," her words are spoken with certainty, but Jorah still hesitates between a spoonful of food._

" _But how do you know?"_

_She almost laughs. Her Jorah loves facts and must always see the truth with his own eyes. There's not a bone of blind faith in him. She softens her expression and with her free hand, wipes a smudge of dirt from his cheek._

" _I see it in your kind heart."_

_Jorah tilts his head slightly, digesting her words. It is not easy for him to ignore the pull of logic, but he seems satisfied with the response. Perhaps he can sense_ _the blind faith she carries for him._

_A scarce smile pulls on his lips, raising his cheeks and brightening his eyes. Her beautiful boy. Her life's joy. She can see her love reflected in the shared hues of his eyes. It warms her heart in a way nothing else ever will._

_Jeor Mormont may have introduced her to love, but their son_ _has shown her its intricate details. Through motherhood, she has learned that there is no limit to her love – it's endless – stretching from one heart to another across great distances, binding souls together through time._

_As the hours tick by slowly, she notices an increase in Jorah's concerned glances towards the door._

" _There's nothing to worry about. Your father will be back before the day is over," she murmurs, eyes brimming with affection."When all is said and done, our hearts always lead us home."_

* * *

**_304 AC – Blackwater Bay_ **

_**(Jorah Mormont)** _

_How strange._

_A_ s the towering cliffs of Dragonstone loom ahead, Jorah hears the call of home grow stronger whilst traveling away from his birthplace and closer to a place he's never been before.

Dragonstone may be an island, but it looks nothing like Bear Island. In place of soft natural beauty, exists a sharp elegance that is both fragile and intimidating. The castle atop the cliffs blends into the steady gray of the sea and sky, broken up only by the depth of its shadow. An eerie stillness hangs in the air, carrying the energy of a building storm that will never find shore.

Jorah is not fooled by the gentle waters, for just below the surface rests an active volcano as dangerous and alluring as the dragons that once burrowed in its caves. It's enough to make sane men uneasy. But those men have not seen what hides behind the cool exterior of the castle walls.

For someone who only recently escaped the grasp of death, Jorah feels more alive than he has in years. He's been cured, not only by Samwell Tarly's kindness, but by the forgiveness of his Queen. She demanded that he return to her side and so he shall. No matter the distance or chill of the land.

The course may be different, but the destination is the same – home.

* * *

_**305 AC – Winterfell – The Long Night** _

_**(Daenerys Targaryen)** _

The night is fast approaching.

Sunlight slowly drains from the sky and candles flicker across the dark walls of Winterfell, forming a world of shadows. Every room of the large castle seems occupied. There's no escaping the boisterous laughter and loud conversations that echo beyond wooden doors. With a battle on the horizon, it's natural for people to gather together. Knowing this, Daenerys still struggles to quell her irritation as with each passing moment, she fails to find peace and quiet. Lingering in her borrowed bedchambers only served to fuel her souring mood.

She finds herself both too anxious to sleep and too exhausted to remain awake.

Daenerys growls as she rounds the corner of yet another long corridor. But her frustration quickly fades as she peers into the corner room situated close to the stairwell. It's small and occupied by only one other person. She immediately recognizes the broad shoulders framed against the soft light of a glowing hearth.

She smiles.

Now _this_ is familiar.

Daenerys slips into the room and closes the door behind her with a soft click. Ser Jorah turns his head at the sound. He must recognize her footsteps because he speaks without setting eyes on her.

"It's late, Khaleesi. You should be resting, there's a long night ahead."

She huffs out a breath, amused by the predictability of his words.

"I'm not the one who will be leading the first charge," she replies, targeting a decision that barely has her approval.

"We may all come face-to-face with the enemy before it's over," he reasons, brushing away the argument that's already been hashed out between them.

Daenerys crosses the room to sit on the wooden bench beside her knight, close enough for their arms to brush. They sit together in companionable silence, both content in the other's presence. The moment reminds her so much of the past that if she closed her eyes, she would surely find them sitting beneath a star-filled sky.

"Do you remember the first time you told me about Bear Island?" she asks suddenly.

Ser Jorah nods. "That was a long time ago."

"It's been a long journey," she points out, eyebrows raised. Ser Jorah's lips tilt and he hums in agreement.

Daenerys shifts closer, basking in the warmth of his company. For weeks, she has buried fear beneath layers of diplomacy, determined to remain strong in front of her new allies. Now, in the company of the one man who won't judge her weakness, she allows her worries and doubts to resurface. She ponders the dangers ahead, wishing they had more time to linger in the past. Having Ser Jorah nearby seems to amplify the fear of losing him. She knows that if she stares into his eyes for too long, she will say things she shouldn't – things that, on the eve of battle, may tempt the cruelty of fate.

He's given her so much, while she has left promises unfulfilled.

"You could've left, you know...you could've returned to Bear Island and I never would have blamed you," she says, but even as the words leave her mouth, she knows they're nothing more than a foolish attempt to assuage her own guilt.

"I could never abandon you," he responds, his tone nothing but earnest.

Their eyes exchange a smile.

"I know."

Silence settles around them once again and before long, Daenerys' eyelids grow heavy. Stubbornness rears its head and she's desperate to ignore the tug of sleep, unwilling to let go of precious time left with her knight. Ser Jorah watches this struggle with a mixture of amusement and affection.

"Sleep, Khaleesi. I will wake you when it's time," he whispers.

Part of her wants to argue, but her mind is already dipping between reality and dreams. She leans into Ser Jorah completely, resting her cheek against his shoulder.

"Promise you won't leave," she pleads, her voice a slur of exhaustion.

"I promise."

* * *

_**285 AC – Braavos** _

_**(Daenerys Targaryen)** _

" _Carefully, Princess," Ser Willem Darry murmurs, watching as she reaches for the bright yellow fruit dangling from a low-hanging branch. Daenerys holds her breath and stretches precariously onto her toes. Her small fingers wiggle closer to the ripe lemon. It feels out of her reach. Her legs begin to burn. But still, she reaches through the curved branches until her hand closes around something solid._

_A chesty laugh escapes Ser Willem once she plucks the fruit from its haven. The sound brings a smile to her face. He pats her back with a massive hand, observing her fondly through half-clouded eyes. He opens his mouth to speak again, but another voice cuts through._

" _Well done, sister. Learning the roles of a servant already?" Viserys strolls up with a ridiculing smirk. His steps are light and his expression unworried. He snatches the precious fruit from her hand before she can think to stop him. "Your king is forever grateful for your humble service," Viserys mocks her with a bow then tosses the lemon between his soft hands, pale eyes daring her to contradict him._

_Daenerys looks to Ser Willem, but the old knight only shakes his head. Disapproval is evident in the arch of his brow, but he remains silent. So Daenerys forces her own mouth to remain shut. She should be used to this by now. Viserys always gets his way._

_Her brother's smile widens as he glances between Daenerys and Ser Willem, waiting for one of them to challenge him. The dragon puffs out his chest and tips his chin upwards, but Daenerys knows better. She wonders how much it would take for Viserys' faux confidence to shatter. Probably not much, but the resulting anger would be disastrous. His hot temper serves as the only deterrent, not strength or power; just child-like tantrums that leave everyone exhausted._

_Fighting back tears of frustration, Daenerys lets Viserys trot back to his comfortable chambers with her lemon. Ser Willem's eyes narrow, watching Viserys leave until he disappears from view._

_There's a long_ _stretch of silence before he_ _turns to Daenerys again. His eyes roam her face sympathetically._

" _You were successful because of your persistence, Princess," he explains, raising his wooden cane slightly. Grasping it tightly between worn fingers, he taps it against the bark of the tree with a surprising amount_ _of strength. A loud crack follows and two lemons tumble to the ground. Ser Willem grunts wearily as he bends to pick up the fallen fruit. He studies the lemon closely, turning it around in his hand before reaching out to place it into Daenerys' palm. Her fingers automatically curl around the citrus, but whereas the one from earlier had been bright yellow, the fallen lemon_ _was partially green with indentation from where it had struck the ground._

" _Oftentimes, violence and anger result in disappointment," Ser Willem says quietly. Daenerys pulls her gaze back to his kind eyes and finds them bright with understanding. "Patience is an important part of life. Given enough time, the fruit will fall on its own." His tone is wise with truth that extends far beyond the branches of the tree in front of them._

_But Ser Willem's words do little to ease her bitterness._

" _The future is good to those who favor kindness, Princess. One day, you shall return to your home in Westeros_ _and while your brother may take his_ _seat on the throne, he will not know love."_

* * *

_**305 AC – King's Landing** _

_**(Daenerys Targaryen)** _

At last, she has arrived.

Daenerys stands on the precipice of all she has ever wanted, teetering between truth and the unknown. She traces the rough edges of the door that separates her from the throne – destiny is at her fingertips. The ghosts of a hundred Targaryen ancestors call to her from beyond the wooden door, their voices raised to the pitch of a dragon's song.

_Have they been waiting for her? Had their voices formed the storm that carried her across the Narrow Sea? Why does her heart waver?_

" _One day, you shall return to your home in Westeros..."_

Ser Willem's prophetic words echo in her mind, awakening the uncertainty she's tried so hard to deny.

_Is this her home?_

The Night King is dead, Cersei Lannister and her army are gone, the people are free, and all that's left is for Daenerys to claim her birthright. She should be eager to sit on the throne that has taunted her dreams, but instead she hesitates...still searching for something more.

From close behind her, she hears the sudden rustle of fabric, followed by approaching footsteps. Daenerys inhales sharply.

In panic, her mind summons a mantra of denial.

_If I look back, I am lost._

The soft tap of leather against stone continues. Her heart leaps – she knows those footsteps.

_If I look back, I am lost._

_Perhaps not this time_ , part of her pleads. Perhaps if she looks back now, she will find exactly what she's been searching for or more accurately, _who_ she has been searching for.

After years of waiting in silence, Daenerys' heart leaps ahead of her mind. In one swift movement, she slides her hand from the door and turns her back on the throne.

And there he is.

"Jorah-," she inhales sharply around his name, relieved to see him standing tall and strong. He looks nothing like a man who just traveled all the way from the North to King's Landing by boat. Not so long ago, he had nearly died while protecting her. Then as he lay recovering in bed, he had urged her to continue south without him, breaking her heart and testing her strength. He had been too weak to travel by horseback and too stubborn to allow an army to wait on his recovery.

But he's with her again and the only evidence of injury is the slight hitch in his gait.

"The Queen of the Seven Kingdoms," he declares proudly, his lips forming the brightest smile she's ever seen.

She tries to mirror his expression, but her lips wobble beneath the pressure of tears.

_Oh, the time she has wasted._ _She's been a fool for so long. Not anymore._

With sudden urgency, she rushes forward to close the distance between them.

Ser Jorah's arms open on instinct, ready to welcome her. She steps into them easily, her hands sliding around his waist. There's a breath of hesitation before he returns the embrace, but once he does, she melts into the familiarity of his touch. Pressing closer still, she burrows her face against him, planting a reverent kiss to his chest.

_This_ is the place she's searched for, prayed for.

Her heart settles in her chest.

_Finally._


End file.
